Reconstruct
by fairwinds09
Summary: An unfinished snippet of a sequel for "Fall Apart." Begins at Christmas and continues through the beginning of the next year.
1. All I Want for Christmas

A/N: I began writing a sequel to "Fall Apart" this summer when I was riding high on the Olitz shipper joy, when we had that amazing kiss at the end of Season 6 and the vague promise of a steamy reunion in Season 7. I wanted to show what life was like for Liv and Fitz in D.C. after all the tumult of "Fall Apart" - how would they make it work with a secret baby and a still-steamy love affair while Fitz finished out his term? I got all excited and wrote several chapters, and then...summer break ended, work started up like crazy, and I started watching Season 7.

Season 7 has broken me, y'all. I used to be able to defend Liv for most things, or at least explain _why_ she was making the horrible decisions she was making. But I can't. I just can't anymore. The presumed death of Quinn (even though I'm holding out hope it's not true) was my breaking point. And with the horror of Season 7, an insane work schedule, and some family things going on, I lost all time and desire to write fluffy Olitz.

Nevertheless, I felt like publishing this snippet, partly because it's Christmas and the beginning of this fic is at Christmastime. I'll be honest - I don't know if I'll ever come back and finish this. I would like to, but I lost all my Olitz mojo this fall, and I can't promise I'll ever get it back. Shonda is a cruel, cruel mistress. So if you hate unfinished works, this may not be your cup of tea. I get that.

However, if you do decide to read it, be aware that this is about a month after Liv and Quinn and Mali have moved back to D.C. They have a house with ridiculous security measures (and a Huck), and they're in the process of rebuilding OPA. Hope you enjoy - drop me a line if you feel so inclined. And Happy Christmas!

* * *

 _December 16th_

It's been nearly four weeks, four goddamned weeks, and he is going out of his mind. Almost a month since he saw her, since he held her. Almost a month since he saw his daughter. The thought still bowls him over, that they have a _daughter_. Their daughter.

He pinches the bridge of his nose painfully and forces himself to focus on the budget amendments sitting on the desk in front of him.

Just a few more hours, and then he can hear her voice again.

~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s

He calls her cell at a little past 10:00 PM, hopes she has it turned low enough that it won't wake the baby. After the fifth ring, he starts to worry, but everything in him eases when in the middle of the sixth she picks up.

"Hi," he says, low, and he hears her quick little gasp, the soft mumble. He knows that sound, has known it for nearly nine years. "Were you asleep?"

"Hmm?" she murmurs, and that husky sleep-tinged voice goes straight to his groin. "Ohh...hi, baby."

He grins, can't help himself. She never calls him by pet names, _ever_ , unless she's mostly asleep. He told her once that she was at her sweetest only when she was barely conscious. (If he remembers correctly, she pushed him off the bed in lieu of a reply.)

"I didn't mean to wake you," he says, tries to keep the laughter out of his voice. It's the first time all day he's felt at ease, the ache in his chest a little lighter.

She draws in a deep breath, sighs it out. "It's been a long day," she says, and his hand tightens around the edge of his desk. He hates this, hates being away from her. Hates not being able to help. "I don't think either of us stopped moving until I put Mali down at six. And that-that did not last long."

He gets up, moves to pour himself a scotch. The guilt claws at him, sinks into his flesh, scratches bone, and he doesn't think he can handle this without something to take the edge off.

"How is she?"

"She's good," Liv sighs, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "Talkative. Takes after you."

He chuckles.

"Yes, because her mother is so very much the silent type."

She huffs out a breath, and he knows she's trying not to laugh.

"She saying actual words yet?" He tries to put the stopper back in the decanter quietly; he doesn't want her to know that he needs a drink for this.

"Fitz." The eyeroll is almost audible. "She's barely four months old. Even if she _is_ the most brilliant baby in the universe, she's not going to say anything resembling actual words for at least two more months. Maybe longer."

"I think you're underestimating her. Our daughter, being just...average? Please, Liv."

She does laugh this time, deep and rich and it assuages a little of the guilt, burns it away faster than the scotch ever could.

"I wish I could be there," he says, a half-whisper, and immediately regrets it because she stops laughing abruptly. "I wish-I wish I could paint rooms with you and hang pictures and move furniture. I wish I could hold her while we worked."

There's silence on the other end of the line, and he wonders if he's said too much, if she'll pull back again.

"I do too," she admits, and it's so quiet that he almost doesn't hear her. But he does, and the twist of bright pain in his chest nearly takes his breath away. She wants him there, and she's actually _said_ it, and he can't go.

"I can be there in eleven minutes," he says, because one word from her and he'll throw it all to the winds.

" _No_. Absolutely not. Fitz, we talked about this-"

"I know. Liv, I know. I just-I walked past the tree outside the Oval today, and there was a teddy bear on it, and I-"

He knocks back the scotch, because if he finishes that sentence it's going to break him.

She makes a noise, half-choked, verging on a sob. "Don't."

"Livvie." It's harsh, scratchy with liquor and the pain. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She's quiet for a minute, forcing the emotions down, and when she speaks he can tell she's got it together again, at least for the moment.

"December 27th. That's what we agreed on."

"I know."

Another long minute, and the fear starts bubbling up in his chest again.

"And after that, we damn well celebrate on the right day." She sounds fierce, determined. "Every damn year. All right?"

"Damn straight," he shoots back, and they manage a watery sort of chuckle. It's not convincing, but they're trying and that's the point.

"So…" he says, slowly, lets them shift gears, because he's learned the hard way that forcing her to talk through things when she's not ready never ends well for him. "Are you actually decorating for Christmas?"

He can hear the rustle as she turns over, imagines her curled on her side in those silky white pajamas he's always loved on her.

"Of course we are," she says, as if it's the stupidest thing he's ever asked her. (He is willing to vouch for the fact that it is not.) "It's her first Christmas."

"Hmm." He sets the tumbler down. "Olivia Pope, decking the halls with boughs of holly. I have to admit, it's a little hard to envision."

She scoffs. "I am filled with Christmas cheer, thank you." There's a pause. "Actually, that was a lie. I hung two spruce branches over the mantelpiece and drank some cocoa. Quinn's the one who's gone all Martha Stewart Does the Holidays on me."

He actually does laugh at that. "You've got to be kidding."

"I am not. It's terrifying. The second we get a room put together I lose her for hours, putting up Santa Clauses and reindeer and God knows what else. If she hangs one more string of tinsel I think the ceiling might cave in."

The smile feels almost foreign, this brief happiness flooding him. He keeps clinging to the thought- _one more year_.

"I promise to come dig you out of the rubble with my own two hands."

"I think your Secret Service detail might be a little more helpful."

"I'm wounded."

She snickers.

"It's a nice neighborhood, but I don't think even they are used to the president-or his bodyguard-just dropping in."

"It's an excellent way to connect with the American citizens I am proud to serve."

"You are ridiculous."

He runs his thumb around the rim of the glass, basks in this, the ease of it.

"I love you," he says, a little throaty because it hits him all over again at the most random moments, how much he needs her. Needs them both.

"Even when I call you ridiculous?" She's trying to play it off, keep things light.

"You could call me every name in the book, and I would still love you," he vows, and he knows her, hears that soft little sigh that says he struck home. "You should know that already, you've tried several."

The sound of her giggle is his personal victory march.

"Go back to sleep, Livvie," he says gently, even though he'd rather stay on the phone with her till dawn. "You need rest."

"All right," she murmurs, and he can tell she's stifling a yawn.

"Okay," he whispers, and he's about to hang up when he hears her, drowsy and a little muffled by the pillow.

"I love you too."

He doesn't need any more scotch that night.

* * *

 _December 19th_

He's striding towards her, looking very serious and purposeful, and she glances down at the sheaf of documents in her hand, wondering which of them he needs at the moment. Ever since they came home from Port Townsend in November, he's been _back_ -on fire, determined, resolute, no holds barred. Naturally, his enemies on the Hill are experiencing deep disappointment...the very ones who had thoroughly enjoyed having a perpetually tipsy, half-addled president who could barely hold it together through a state dinner, let alone through a security briefing. She'd protected him from it as best she could, for as long as she could, but she will freely admit that there's a profound sense of relief that he's actually _being_ president again.

"Abby, I need you for a minute," he says, brisk and businesslike, and she nods, thinks that maybe this is about the immigration bill he's been trying to push or something about the new budget agenda the Speaker sent over yesterday.

"My office?" she asks, and leads the way inside. He closes the door carefully.

"I want to see them."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Them?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

She fights the urge to sigh. "Sir-"

"It's been three days since I talked to her. And I know you have it, so don't waste my time."

She grits her teeth and thinks very seriously about throwing a paperweight at him.

"Sir, you have the ambassador of Yemen in your office in five minutes, you have a meeting with the joint chiefs this afternoon for which you have _not_ yet been briefed, and there is a budget meeting on the Hill tomorrow and I know for a fact that you did not finish going over the proposal yesterday evening. You do not have-"

"-time." She purses her lips, because she hates it when he finishes her sentences for her. "I know all of that. But right now I have five minutes, and I plan on using them. Unless you want me to be late meeting the prime minister."

Jaw clenched, she fishes in her jacket pocket and pulls out her phone.

"You know, my job description is the White House Chief of Staff, not some underpaid tech at Shutterfly," she grumbles, but she flicks to her photo albums anyway, clicks on the latest picture from Quinn. "There," she huffs. "You have three minutes and thirty seconds. Just so you know."

He isn't paying the slightest bit of attention to her anymore, his eyes fixed on the screen of her iPhone.

"When was this?" and God, his voice sounds so gentle. It makes her traitorously sympathetic, and she cannot _afford_ sympathy right now.

"Yesterday," she snaps. "Two minutes and forty-five seconds."

He ignores her, uses finger and thumb to zoom in.

"She's getting so big," he murmurs. "Do you think what you bought the other day will still fit, if she's growing this fast?"

"Of course they will. They're tailored. You had me buy _tailored baby clothes_. And a three hundred dollar rocking horse."

"It's Amish. Handmade," he retorts, but he still hasn't looked away from the screen.

"It's three hundred dollars. And let's not even discuss the two hundred dollar set of wooden blocks I picked up yesterday, because what baby doesn't need a set of blocks that costs as much as a college textbook?"

"Exactly." He grins, unrepentant.

"One minute, thirty seconds."

His eyes are so hungry, she thinks, so avid as he stares down at the phone in his hand, and she can't help it. Damn him, damn his love for his daughter, and damn those aching eyes.

"She sleeps with that little giraffe you got her every night," she says, and his eyes flick up to her face for the first time in four minutes. "Liv says she won't settle down without it."

"She does?" There's a crooked half-smile (the one she now knows means he's trying too hard), and she breaks protocol, reaches out and rests her fingers gently on his wrist.

"It'll be all right," she says, meaninglessly, but he seems a bit better, cold comfort though it is. Then she sees the numbers at the top of the screen in his hand, and she draws in a sharp breath. "All right, sir. It's time."

He checks his watch, the smile dissipating. "Right."

He turns on his heel, heads across to the Oval to meet with the ambassador, handing her phone back as he goes. She's moving towards her desk, about to look for her notes before she goes to sit in, but then she gets distracted by the image on the screen.

Liv's face is glowing, smile wide and glorious as she holds the baby overhead. In her steady hands, Mali laughs, delighted, her eyes fixed on her mother, hands and feet flying as she sails blithely through the air. It's such a normal moment, so easy and natural that it could be anyone, really - any mother playing with her child, a single moment of happiness forever captured in lines and pixels. Abby looks at it for a long moment, too long considering all that's waiting for her, but she can't quite bring herself to look away.

Quinn has started sending her a picture or a video every day or so, little snippets to pacify him, to keep him from doing something irretrievably reckless that will ruin the careful façade they've all painstakingly put together to protect everyone involved. It holds him together, she knows, for now.

Honestly, though, she doesn't know how much longer this can last.


	2. Merry Christmas, Darling

A/N: I really love this poem by Donne. I love pretty much everything by Donne, but this poem is special. You should really go and read the whole thing. "The Good-Morrow," John Donne. My Christmas present to you.

Also, I got an enormous kick writing Liv and Fitz being besotted, proud parents. I can absolutely see them trying to enroll Mali in every Ivy League school that exists when she's four months old, just because they think she's that incredible.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 _December 27th_

They are curled up on the couch in front of the dwindling fire, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her, their knees crowding for space. She sighs a little, turns her head to press her face into his collarbone, and she can feel the kiss he drops softly onto her hair.

"Good day?" he asks, and she feels the vibrations of his voice in his chest, smiles a little at the sensation.

"Yes," she whispers back. She's sleepy and warm, and he's here, and for a few minutes she can shut out the ugly reality that this is December 27th, and he wasn't here on Christmas Day. A vague memory of a woman - Pastor Drake's mistress, Anna, she suddenly remembers - floats through her mind. She resolutely pushes the thought away. "She had such a good time today, Fitz."

He chuckles, tightens the arm around her shoulders. "She did. She's so smart, our girl. Of course she is. But still - "

"Still surprises you, doesn't it?"

"She's incredible, Liv. So much like you. The faces she makes, the way she smiles - "

"You're besotted." He runs his fingers through the silky strands framing her face, doesn't even try to deny it.

"Yeah, I am."

She yawns and stretches, sliding out of his embrace as she lets cramped muscles go long and fluid. He slides the backs of his fingers over her taut stomach in an easy caress.

"Quinn coming home soon?" he asks. She suspects that he's more than a little jealous of Quinn living here as her surrogate family, taking care of his child, but he's been more or less pleasant about it. Plus, she's made it clear she needs the help.

"Uh-uh. She's out on a date-some guy she met before we left. Charlie, I think?"

"Hmm," and she wonders wryly if he'd be quite so calm if he knew exactly who Charlie was, what Charlie's done. She has absolutely no intention of telling him. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

"So...we have the house to ourselves."

She raises an eyebrow at him, teasing. "Not worried about waking the baby?"

He's rummaging for something in his briefcase, but stops and turns to look back at her.

"Not that I would mind trying, but - I meant this."

He slides a narrow package over to her. It's neatly wrapped (too neatly, she thinks, because she knows what it looks like when he tries to wrap anything).

"What is this?" she murmurs, playing with the silver bow on top. "Fitz, you didn't need to get me anything expensive - "

"Just open it," he says, and there's a note of nervous excitement in his voice that puts her on edge.

"Fitzgerald Grant." She straightens, warning in the rigid column of her spine. "If this is an engagement ring, I will - "

"It's not!" he protests. "Although if you would just - "

"No," she says firmly. "It is _not_ the right time. Not even _close_ to the right time."

His mouth tightens, irritated, but he lets it go.

"Just open it, Livvie," and she shoots him a barbed glance, but slides the pretty bow off anyway. She unwraps it slowly, carefully, drawing out the moment because she can feel him shifting beside her and she's getting more than a little concerned about what might be inside.

When she finally opens it, slides the little package out of its nest of tissue, she's confused. It feels like a book, though it's carefully wrapped in a layer of unbleached linen. On top are a pair of plain white cotton gloves.

She glances up at him, confused, and tries to find something to say. She'd expected jewelry, something ridiculous and extravagant, maybe even artwork, but this?

"Put them on," he says, and the excitement is stronger now. Blinking, she slides the gloves on, wonders what on earth has gotten into him. Then, she slides back the layer of cloth covering the little bundle and gasps out loud.

"You didn't," she breathes, but it's plain from the look on his face that he did, and he's bursting with delight at her reaction. "Fitz. _You didn't._ "

He's beaming. "Check the frontispiece."

She opens it, so delicately that it might have been made of spun glass, and her eyes flick down to the date at the bottom. _1633._

" _Fitz._ " The breath hisses out of her lungs, and her gloved finger moves almost without volition to trace the numbers. "Dear God. _Songs and Sonnets._ A first edition?"

"I tracked it down through a British collector out of Johannesburg," he says. "It's rumoured to have been owned by Charles I. There's a note there, inside the front cover."

She looks at the spidery script that sprawls, faded and illegible, across the fragile page.

"Fitz. This i - -"

"Page one sixty five," he responds quietly, and she turns, oh so carefully, until she reaches the right place. Then she freezes, right there on the couch, because sweet Lord, he could not have destroyed her more efficiently if he'd taken a battering ram to her solar plexus.

" 'The Good-Morrow,'" she breathes, and it all comes flooding back to her, that night on the campaign trail when a freak thunderstorm in Galveston took out the power for nearly eighteen hours, and they took full advantage.

 _The heat is relentless, heavy and humid and exhausting, but she doesn't care, can't bring herself to care when it's just the two of them. Her hotel room is, for the moment, their sanctum, candlelight making shadows waver on the walls, the half-open window doing little to relieve the weight of the impending storm._

" _Come here," he whispers, sprawled lazily on a blanket spread across the floor, because they agreed the bed was entirely too hot. She flicks her eyes at him, moves to turn on the TV and check the weather reports before she remembers that she can't._

" _Quit messing with that and come_ here _," he orders, and normally she'd be furious at the command, but right now it sets something fizzing in her blood. Slowly, she sways over, drops to her knees beside him. He reaches up and cups her cheek in one broad hand._

" _God, the way you look in candlelight," he breathes, and something goes liquid inside her, makes her toes curl in helpless desire. "Every line of you perfect. I could look at you like this forever."_

 _She closes her eyes for a moment in supplication. How can she have a hope now of ever resisting?_

" _You just want to look?" she murmurs, opens her eyes and gives him her best sultry stare. It works._

" _Hell no." He surges up at that, the hand on her cheek angling her head just right, his other hand finding the curve of her waist. And then his mouth is on her, slanting fast and searing and possessive over hers, and she can't think anymore. Can't breathe anymore._

 _He takes her (she takes him, they take each other) on the floor, candlelight all around, and the first crash of thunder makes her jump against him, makes him groan at the sudden depth, and in that moment the tang of ozone in the air, the white slash of lightning across the sky seems perfect somehow. This, this is what they do to each other, tear the sky asunder, explode in a cataclysm too loud to be ignored. This love, this madness, is what rips apart the world._

 _After they're done (she claws his back, he cries her name; night falls in tatters at their feet), they lie there, spent and sweaty. She thinks she'll remember the taste of him until the day she dies._

 _He strokes her arm, her shoulder, twines his fingers between hers and nuzzles his nose in her hair. It smarts, this tenderness, presses on her weak points, reminds her how vulnerable they really are._

 _He sighs something against her scalp, and she shifts minutely against him._

" _Hmm?"_

 _He breathes in, slow and deep. "I was just thinking…'makes one little room an everywhere.' That's here, tonight. Our everywhere."_

 _She frowns, trying to place the phrase, and he looks down, smoothes his thumb over the wrinkle between her brows._

" _Donne," he says simply. " 'Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.'"_

 _He's quoting the lines from memory, that husky baritone low in her ear, and she thinks she's never in her life_ _been_ this _girl, the girl who sighed and swooned when some guy quoted poetry to her, but this, with him? How can she not?_

" _One world," she whispers back, all the hope and longing and terrifying uncertainty naked in her voice, and she slips an arm around him, presses her lips to his chest._

" _One world," he echoes, and she can hear the promise in his voice._

 _She read and re-reads the poem for weeks afterward, carries around a paperback copy dog-eared to that page, and can't believe she's reduced to such a ridiculous cliché (and worse, doesn't care)._

 _The day she learns about Amanda Tanner, she throws the book away._

She's back with him, firelight dancing over the walls instead of candlelight, and the same look in his eyes from eight and a half years ago.

"You gave me Donne?" she whispers, and he smiles, the one that breaks her heart because his entire soul is in it.

"Yeah," he whispers back. "That night - you remember?"

"I remember." Her throat is tight, the words straining to come out. Very, very gently, she sets the book back in its box, strips off the cotton gloves, lays them on the coffee table out of harm's way.

She reaches up, takes his face in both her hands.

" 'If our two loves be one, or, thou and I / Love so alike...'" she quotes from memory. He closes his eyes, turns his head to brush his lips across her palm.

"You do remember," he mutters, and when his eyes open again, dark and brimful, she pulls him to her and lays her mouth on his. It's different now, slower and sweeter, no crashing thunder peals tonight, but somehow she doesn't mind.

"One world," she breathes when she's sprawled across his lap, his hands and his mouth creating mindless havoc within her.

"One world," he agrees, breathless, and they find each other all over again in the quiet light and the dancing shadows.

It isn't Christmas, but this year, it's close enough.


	3. Try a Little Tenderness

A/N: Thank you all for your lovely reviews on the first two chapters of this! They warmed the cockles of my heart this cold holiday season.

This next chapter is the last of what I wrote this summer. Fair warning: it is shameless, unapologetic fluff. If you prefer your Olitz dramatic and angsty, this very well may not be your cup of tea. However, if you like cute babies and incredibly good-looking presidents, read on!

This is also the last section of the material I wrote this summer. I therefore am sorry to say that, unless by some miracle Shonda relents and/or my Olitz feels return, this story is on indefinite hiatus from this point on. I hope very much to have the time and renewed ability to continue this at some point, but I feel it would be very unfair to make any promises. Thank you all so much!

* * *

 _January 12th_

He sits in the Oval, feet propped on the desk, and absentmindedly jabs his pen at a yellow legal pad (he still uses them, all these years later, because it's what he always used in college and he likes what he's used to). He's tired, the kind of mind-wearying tired that results in tension headaches and the feeling that his eyes are going to fall back into his skull and never come out.

All that tired just makes it more painfully obvious how much he misses her. It's been a little over two weeks since their Christmas celebration, incredible though it was, and talking on the phone is not enough, will never be enough. His entire presidency, no matter what they were going through, all it took to drive the stress of the job away was the sight of her coming through his door, and suddenly everything was bearable. He wants that, craves that, right now.

Restless, he sighs, looks at his watch. It's not that late, really, but it feels like it, the early dark of winter settling in with a cold that reaches all the way down to his bones. He debates calling, doesn't know if she's still at work or home with Mali, and finally thinks, _Screw it,_ and picks up the phone.

She doesn't pick up, doesn't pick up, and it almost rings through to voicemail, until on the last ring (he's counted how many it takes), he finally hears the tell-tale click.

He knows from the second she says hello that something's wrong.

"Liv?" he asks, wary, because it could be any number of things. Then he hears the noise in the background, the sound of his child wailing at the top of her lungs, and everything in him tenses. "Liv, is everything okay? What's going on?"

"Yes, everything's fine," she says, but she sounds frantic, and he's still irrationally terrified that something is desperately wrong. "It's just - she won't stop crying. She's teething, and she's miserable, and I know she can't help it, but I've tried everything and I don't know what else to do."

He takes a deep breath, relief coursing through him, and leans back in his chair again. Teething babies he can deal with.

"Where's Quinn?"

"She's on a stakeout. We have a client, you know - "

"Yeah, you told me. Which is wonderful, by the way. Third one so far, right?"

"Yes, the third one," she answers, distracted. He can hear something clinking, the sound of a door shutting, and then Mali's wailing becomes much closer and more distinct.

"What are you trying?" he asks, because he remembers all three of his children going through this stage, even if he wasn't the one doing most of the soothing. There's a part of him that still aches at that, especially with Teddy - that there was a nanny holding him when he cried, that she was the one to give him teething rings and cuddles and baths. He doesn't want that with his baby girl, his Amalia.

She makes a sound that lands somewhere between a sob and a strangled laugh.

"Some teething ring that you fill with water and freeze," she says, and he raises an eyebrow because he's heard Olivia Pope upset before, but this time she sounds like she's truly at the end of her rope. "God, Fitz, I've tried every kind of teething ring known to man, I've given her infant Tylenol, even though the amount that's safe for her is so small I doubt it makes any difference whatsoever, I've given her a bath, I've rocked her...I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help her."

She stops, breathing raggedly, and he feels that now-familiar clench of pain in his chest, the knot in his throat. It is so very unfair that she is doing this alone, that she is exhausted and handling everything by herself. He hates it, hates every second of it.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, useless platitude that it is, and he thinks he hears her sniffle. In the meantime, Mali's crying has settled down into hiccuping sobs; he knows the sound of a tired baby when he hears one.

"It's not - I don't - it will be fine," she says, but it's shaky and wholly unconvincing. "It'll be fine. It's just - I should be at the office right now, I should be handling this client, but I couldn't leave her, not like this, and I'm not _good_ at this. I'm not good at - at babies. I never have been."

He swings his feet to the floor and rolls his eyes, grateful for once that she can't see him.

"That is ridiculous. You are brilliant. At everything."

"Not this! I'm - this is different. This is…"

"Exhausting. I know."

She takes a deep breath in, pushes it out. "What if I'm not good at this, Fitz? What if I'm not good at...being a mother?"

That's it, the last straw, and the idea that's been bouncing around in the back of his head is suddenly front and center. He stands, holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder, and starts pulling on his jacket.

"You are very good at being a mother," he tells her while he walks over to the coat rack in the corner for his overcoat. "I have never had the slightest doubt that you would be. But right now you are tired, and stressed, and not thinking straight. Okay?"

He can hear Mali starting up again, and his eyes narrow.

"Okay," she says vaguely, and he can hear something crash to the floor in the background. "Fitz - I have to go, all right? I'll talk to you...um, later."

He grins, because this is going exactly the way he'd hoped.

"All right, Liv," he says. "Night."

The second she rings off, he has Charlotte on the line.

"I'm going to need the small security detail and a car," he informs her, and cheerfully ignores the longsuffering sigh on the other end of the line. Charlotte, as well as most of the staff, is currently under the delusion that he's started catting around with various eligible women of the Washington social scene, and they most definitely do not approve. (This was entirely Abby's idea, and a stroke of genius if he's ever heard one.)

Twenty minutes later, he's in a nondescript black sedan with the four agents that Abby vetted for this very purpose, headed down Connecticut Avenue at an annoyingly sedate pace.

She's going to _kill_ him, he thinks, but it's going to be worth it.

~r~r~~r~r~~r~r~~r~r~~r~r~

He's eternally grateful for the attached garage at the back of the property, because it lets him get away with exactly the sort of thing he's pulling right now. In fact, it was a decisive factor in buying this particular house, because they all agreed that it was in everyone's best interests if no one ever actually _saw_ the President of the United States driving up to her house and going inside. It also helps considerably that his agents have gotten very good at hiding in the shrubbery. (He feels slightly guilty about this, because it can't exactly be a fun part of the job.)

Once he's in, he knows he's got less than a minute before the alarm system notifies her that someone's in the garage. He's hoping she'll figure it's Quinn, and apparently she does, since there's no irate Olivia waiting for him when he steps into the kitchen. He stands still for a moment, head cocked, and then he hears it, the thready wail of an utterly exhausted baby.

She's in the living room, her back to him, Mali flushed and teary in her arms. The slump of her shoulders, the curve of her spine, tell him all he needs to know. She's worn out, and he's suddenly very sure he made the right decision, even if she ends up being furious with him.

He shifts his weight, and the hardwood floors creak under his feet. At the sound, she spins around, the perfect picture of surprise.

"Hi," he says, and tries his best to look sheepish. She glares fiercely.

"Fitz!" She shifts Mali from one arm to the other, bounces her a little out of habit. "What the h...mmph. What are you doing here?"

He grins, because listening to her try to _not_ swear at him is just funny, and walks across the room.

"I thought you could use a break," he says, nonchalant, and she grits her teeth.

"You are not supposed to be here!" she hisses, but she doesn't try to fight him when he plucks the baby from her arms. "We talked about this - you're not supposed to come here until the end of the month, you know that, and you are risking - "

"I know what I'm risking," he says calmly, and holds his daughter out in front of him. Mali snuffles pathetically and sticks her little fist in her mouth in a vain effort to numb the pain, and he is bowled over for the millionth time with how much he loves her. "Come here, sweetheart," he murmurs and cuddles her against his shoulder.

Liv sinks into the armchair by the fireplace and buries her head in her hands.

"I can't - Jesus, Fitz, you shouldn't - " he hears, muffled, and then she just gives up, lets her head drop to her knees and sits there in a crumpled heap.

He sits on the couch, carefully, lays his daughter against his chest. Mali whimpers for a moment, then gets distracted by one of his shirt buttons, pulling at it with tiny fingers. He smiles.

"Liv, come over here," he entreats, because she hasn't moved in over a minute and the sight is disconcerting.

"No," comes from behind the fall of dark hair, and he tries not to laugh. She's so damn stubborn.

"Come here and sit with me for a minute," he says, rubs his daughter's back, revels in the weight of her head on his shoulder. "You can be mad at me later. Come on."

It's probably petty, but he feels a distinct sense of triumph when she finally picks her head up and gives him a half-hearted glare. She looks so tired, he thinks, dark circles under those lovely eyes; she's pushing too hard, and it worries him that she's not getting enough rest.

"She stopped crying," she says, and there's a distinct note of jealousy in her voice. "She _stopped_ _crying_."

"I'm sure she'll start back up in a minute," he offers, trying to appease her, but she just looks at him through slitted eyes. "Liv, for God's sake, come over here and sit with me. Glare at me at close range, I'm sure it'll be much more painful that way."

Her jaw works, but finally she gets up, heaves a sigh, and plops down next to him on the couch. Ignoring the rage radiating off her in waves, he wraps his free arm around her and breathes in the scent of her hair. (God, he loves that smell.)

"I couldn't just leave you here alone," he whispers. "I know I'm not supposed to be here, I know what we agreed to, but you sounded so tired over the phone, and I - I'm in this, too, Liv. I want to help you through this. Okay?"

It takes a minute, but she finally relaxes into his hold, turns her face into his shoulder and breathes him in too.

"I'm so tired," she says finally, her voice breaking, and he pulls her closer because it's the only thing he can do. "I'm so damn tired. I'm Olivia Pope, for God's sake, I've gotten presidents elected and dealt with government spy agencies and advised queens and handled prime ministers, and I still can't get my baby - _my own baby -_ to stop crying. And I can hardly see straight because I'm so exhausted. I just - I don't know how - " She breaks off, and he can hear the tears straining at the edges of her voice.

"I know...I know, baby," he whispers, rubs down her arm, her shoulder, back up again, because he can't think of anything else. "I know. I'm sorry. I wish - I want it to be different, wish I could take the load off of your shoulders more. But Liv - you can do this. You can. You can _handle_ this. You're Olivia Pope. You can handle anything. You just don't have to handle it alone."

She looks up at him quickly, eyes swimming, and whatever she sees there seems to calm her. Then she nods a little, deep in thought, lays her cheek against his shoulder, and reaches over to stroke Mali's curls. For whatever reason, the baby's been quiet since he picked her up, seems content for the time being to lie there and let her parents hold her. The thought warms him from somewhere deep down, the three of them sitting there, together. This, _this_ was the way it was always supposed to be, and he's determined to make it last.

"You can't come over here every time I have a bad day," Liv says after a moment, and he fights the urge to heave a sigh. She's like a dog with a bone, always has been, and he would be an idiot to think that this would be any different.

"I'm aware of that," he replies, fiddling with the hem of her sweater. She grabs his hand, turns it over and presses her thumb firmly into the palm.

"Good," she says, defiant, but then she laces her fingers through his and he hides his smile in her hair. (He still knows all her tells.)

They sit there for a bit, quiet, holding hands while the fire pops and crackles, and then Mali shifts restlessly; she gasps once, twice, and then the crying starts again. Liv drops her head against the back of the couch, closes her eyes.

"I'll take her," she says tonelessly. He chuckles.

"No, you will not."

"What?"

"I said, no, you will not. I'm here. _I_ will go find her teething ring and try to get her to go to sleep. _You_ , on the other hand, will go upstairs and have a hot bath. Or a nap. Maybe both."

Her lashes lift, and she stares at him without bothering to move her head.

"You don't have to - "

He cuts her off, because she's fond of telling him all manner of things he doesn't have to do; it's ridiculous, and he's tired of it.

"Yes, I do have to. I'm her father. She is my child. Therefore, I have to."

She lets her head fall back to his shoulder with a little moan of fatigue.

"...I don't think I can get up."

He grins, because this is as close as he's going to get to her saying he's won.

"Sure you can." He stands up, a very cranky Mali protesting the whole way, and gently drags Liv up too. "Go on. Hot bath. Pajamas. Bed."

She sways on her feet, watches him blearily as he kisses their daughter's flushed cheeks.

"You know, this may be the first time ever that you've tried to get me in a bathtub all by myself," she remarks slyly, and he laughs out loud, because even when she's worn down to a nub the woman never stops.

"You're just trying to get me distracted now," he observes, and she purses her lips in frustration. He knows for a fact that sometimes she hates that he knows her this well.

"Fine," she huffs, and stalks off to the stairs. She turns on the first step, smiles evilly. "I just won't think of you when I'm naked, in the bathtub, rubbing lavender oil all over myself…"

She trails off when she hears him stifle a moan and shoots him a self-satisfied look.

"That's what I thought."

He shakes his head, presses his cheek to his daughter's curls, and heads off to the kitchen in search of one of those freezable teething rings.

"Your mother does not fight fair," he tells her as she thumps her chubby fist against his sternum. The thought of Liv, right upstairs, very wet and very naked, surrounded by little tendrils of steam, and-he cuts himself off sharply. _Not_ the reason he's here tonight.

The bite of cold air from the freezer is a welcome deterrent.

"Not fair at all," he mutters, and hands Mali the icy plastic ring.

~r~r~~r~r~~r~r~~r~r~~r~r~

It takes a solid hour, a considerable amount of pacing, and every Otis Redding song he knows, but Mali finally goes to sleep somewhere around 10:15. He lays her in her crib very, very carefully and tiptoes out of the room, only partially closing the door. He hopes like hell that she'll stay down for at least a couple of hours, but there aren't any guarantees.

Liv's bedroom door is cracked, and when he cautiously pushes it open, he can see her, curled up in bed facing him, one hand tucked under her cheek. Her lashes flutter open at his first step, and he curses inwardly for waking her.

"Hey," she says groggily, and holds out a hand in invitation. He crosses to her, lies on top of the duvet and pulls her to him. As much as he loves Olivia as she normally is, all fire and confidence, four-inch heels and _consider it handled_ , he has an admitted soft spot for this version of her - limbs loose and lax, hair rumpled by the pillows, melting into him like butter on a hot day. It's a side of her that he rarely gets to see, one that he knows she shows to hardly anyone else, and the implicit trust of it sometimes takes his breath away.

"She asleep?" she murmurs against his chest, and he lifts a hand to stroke her hair back from her face.

"Yeah," he whispers. "It took a while, but she finally went down. She's worn out."

She chuckles feebly. "She's not the only one."

He kisses her forehead, runs his thumb over her nose. (He sincerely hopes Mali got her mother's nose.)

"Feel better?" he asks, and she nods.

"Yeah." Eyes closed, she cups his cheek, traces the outer edge of his ear with one finger. "It was...heaven."

He chuckles at that, mostly to distract himself from the sensation of her playing with his ear. ( _Not_ why he's here tonight, he tells himself sternly for the hundredth time.)

"Good. You still mad at me for coming over here?"

There's a pause, and then she pushes herself up on her elbow so she's hovering over him.

"Yes. It was stupid, and reckless, and absolutely _not_ what we agreed to. I'm furious with you."

It is possibly the most unconvincing speech he's ever heard her give.

"Uh-huh."

"You are an idiot," she says, combs her fingers through his hair, leans down, and kisses him, long and deep and sweet.

He pulls her on top of him, cradles her head, and kisses her back for everything he's worth, feels all the tired ache of the day slip away at the touch of her lips to his.

"I love you," he murmurs when they break away for air, and she brushes a very tender kiss against his jawline, another against his Adam's apple, one at the corner of his eye.

"You're still an idiot," she informs him as his hands span her back, seek purchase at her waist. "But...I'm glad you came over here tonight." She looks away for a moment, looks back at him with something indefinable gleaming in her eyes. "I can handle it, now. I can. But you - having you here...it helped."

"Anytime," he mouths against her collarbone, and rolls them so she's on the bottom. She smiles, that rare, full smile that means she's purely happy, and he can't move for the sheer beauty of it. _It's enough_ , he thinks, and nothing else matters in that moment, not their teething baby or the hiding or the ache of missing her every single day. _Together, we're enough._

Definitely, absolutely worth it.


End file.
